MCM's Blog, page 21

Nurture Your Books: Promoting Global Literacy

 

Nurture Your Books is a well-established company that promotes independent authors (both small press and self-published), as well as supporting literacy and the love of books across the globe.

November 1st – December 1st, 2011 will be Nurture Your Books' 2nd Annual Celebration of readers and authors world-wide. This includes book giveaways to readers, virtual author tours, and other contests and prizes for members (it's free to join).

Since 1889 Labs has donated print books and ebooks to Nurture Your Books, we also thought it'd be beneficial to have a chat with the CEO of Nurture Your Books, Bobbie Crawford-McCoy, as this organization is a truly good thing and we are excited to be participating. I'll let Bobbie fill in the rest of the details to you.

 

TW: Tell us a little about yourself.

BCM: My name is Bobbie Crawford-McCoy and I am happily married to the love of my life. We currently live in beautiful Alberta, Canada with our child and our two cats, Mr. & Mrs. Kitty.

I love spending time with my immediate family, reading (a big surprise I'm sure), networking with other "bookish" people, painting with watercolours when the mood strikes, and I like to drink coffee — okay…I LOVE to drink coffee.

Did I forget to mention that I am the CEO, Founder & Owner of Nurture Your BOOKS™?

TW: Your organization, Nurture Your BOOKS™, is based on promoting global literacy. How does it hope to achieve this goal?

BCM: Nurture Your BOOKS™ is first and foremost an independent author & book promotion Company. We promote a wide variety of authors and books to a Global readership with various professional services including virtual book tours, free book trailer spotlights, advertising and more. Nurture Your BOOKS™ also proudly supports World Literacy Canada.

Through Nurture Your BOOKS™ we have been able to establish an Annual Celebration of Author's & Readers Worldwide; the 2nd Annual Celebration takes place this year from November 1st-December 31st, 2011. All celebratory events will be centered in and around the free, Nurture Your BOOKS™ NING.

As with last year's events, there will be:

·         Sponsored Virtual Author Visits – up to 60 different authors

·         Book Giveaways for Readers – hundreds of print, eBooks & audiobooks to win

·         Contests & Prizes for Readers

·         Contests & Prizes for Authors

·         Reader Recommendations

New this year:

·         Official Event Press Releases through PRWEB

·         Digital Attendee Badge

·         Online Calendar with all events listed

·         Get It Write™ Online Discussions & Forums

·         Official sign-up form/agreement

·         Official Twitter Account

·         Twitter contests for readers – win books to review

·         Official Facebook Fan Page

And much more!

TW: I'm one of the authors that have donated books to this cause. So far, how many authors are participating in the Nurture Your BOOKS™, 2nd Annual Celebration? How many books in total have been donated to you thus far?

BCM: So far there are approximately 35 authors who are participating in one form or another. We are looking forward to a much larger number of participating authors before the 2nd Annual Event officially begins on November 1st, 2011.

To date we have received over 700 eBook donations and 65 print book donations (paperback, hard cover, etc.) to be used as Event-related prizes. At this point in time, Nurture Your BOOKS™ is picking up the tab for shipping-out all of the Event-related prizes to winners around the world; that said we'd be very appreciative of any financial donations to be used toward Event-related shipping costs.

We are gladly accepting new print book, audiobook and eBook donations for the 2nd Annual Celebration until October 15th, 2011; any donations received after that time will be set aside for the 3rd, Annual Celebration next year.

Please mail any print book and audiobook donations to:

Nurture Your BOOKS, 2nd Annual

Attn: Bobbie Crawford-McCoy

1-780-594-5599

P.O. Box 5866 Stn. Forces

Cold Lake, Alberta

T9M 2C4

CANADA

TW: How many readers have you been able to reach globally through Nurture Your BOOKS™? More specifically, how many countries has Nurture Your BOOKS™ been able to reach?

BCM: Nurture Your BOOKS™ has reached more than 155 countries worldwide with the numbers steadily increasing each month.

TW: What is the most rewarding part of your job?

BCM: That's a really great question because there are so many aspects of my job that I find rewarding. If I had to choose just one it would have to be the one-on-one contact with our clients. I really enjoy the telephone calls and the emails exchanged as a client and I are discussing the best options for promoting their books, within their budget. I believe that it is the genuine connection and the understanding of each author's separate promotional requirements that continues to make Nurture Your BOOKS™ a success.

For more information on how you can either participate or contribute to Nurture Your Books, please visit these sites below:

http://nurtureyourbooks.com/website/

http://nurtureyourbooks.com/vbtblog/

http://www.linkedin.com/pub/bobbie-crawford-mccoy/23/ba2/224

http://nurtureyourbooks.ning.com/

 

 

Interview with Susan Bischoff, Author of the Talent Chronicles

[image error]

Susan Bischoff is the author of the popular YA fiction series the Talent Chronicles. Her first book in the series, Hush Money, had over ten thousand sales in the first six months of it being released, and her second book, Heroes 'Til Curfew, just recently came out and is proving to be just as (if not more) successful.

But Susan Bischoff is not only a prolific author, she also stands as a very bold example of success, despite not being apart of the Big Six. Several weeks ago, Susan and I had quite an interesting and lengthy discussion over her success and her thoughts on the independent author movement.

 

TW: Let's start this off by you telling the readers a little bit about yourself. What have you written?

SB: I'm writing a series called the Talent Chronicles which follows teen characters with super powers coming of age in a world where possession of those abilities is illegal. The first two novels are available: Hush Money, and its sequel, Heroes 'Til Curfew. A short story, Impulse Control, is also out which introduces a different set of characters who have been imprisoned for having powers. That story can be read before or after starting the series.

TW: Your books are quite prolific among indie authors and readers. When you first began writing the Talent Chronicles, had you already decided to go independent, or was this a decision that came later?

SB: Previous to starting Talent Chronicles, I had been writing primarily adult romantic suspense. But the negative climate in the writing community regarding anyone's manuscript ever seeing the light of day made me feel like I was probably wasting my creative energies. So I put my own writing aside for a time to explore other things, while keeping my hand in with editing, lots of reading, and other kinds of writing.

It was learning about the "new" self-publishing that brought me back to writing. It was like, right away, I could see that it wasn't vanity press. It was something different, like Etsy for writers. I was so excited I could hardly wait to get back into writing and get something out there. It was the Talent Chronicles that were speaking to me at that time, so I started the series with the intention of publishing independently.

It was an idea that completely made sense to me, not only because I had a chance of finding readers based on my fiction work rather than query letter skill, but also because I wouldn't have the fear of seeing the series prematurely cancelled by a publisher and having to alter where I wanted to go with it.

TW: Who are some authors that have inspired you? 

SB: Ayn Rand, Nora Roberts, Anne McCaffrey, Shannon McKenna, Elizabeth Haydon, Kate Forsyth, Maggie Shayne, Terry Goodkind, L. Neil Smith, Linda Howard, Debra Webb, Kait Nolan, Claire Legrand, Stacey Wallace Benefiel…

TW: A current issue in the reading community has been raised about quality of books from independent authors. Some say that 'independent authors are independent only because their work wouldn't be accepted by traditional publishers', and is therefore lower in quality. What are your thoughts on this?

SB: I've pretty much gotta call bullshit on that. And I'm NOT saying that those people are purposely spreading lies. I just think they lack information both about who is self-publishing these days and why, and also about what the climate is like in New York publishing right now.

In NY, their world is such that they need to find things that have the best chance of going big. Really big. (Hence the whole realm of celebrity books, where it's the celebrity brand that sells the product, not necessarily the content of the work itself.) Their overhead is high and they publish so much that doesn't pay back what it costs that they really need some big hits that will make up those deficits. In that climate, a lot of high-quality books that readers would enjoy will be failed by that system.

Any reader who thinks about how a favorite series they really enjoyed was ended before its time will realize that. (Anyone who gnashes their teeth about Firefly only lasting one season!?! will realize that this is the way the big guys work. When they don't make money big and fast enough, good stuff gets kicked to the curb, even though it's good.)

So what should authors do when they have quality work (what I call "NY-quality work) that isn't going to make it to the shelves for reasons other than the quality of the manuscript? Just stick it in a drawer when there's another means of getting it to readers now?

But Susan, it's not just those books that are out there.

Tell me about it. Every indie sample I've checked out this week has made me want to cry for one reason or another. But the fact that most of what gets put out isn't NY-quality doesn't take NY-quality away from what is. And that's only part of why I call bullshit to the blanket statement that people only self-pub because they're not good enough for a real publisher.

The other part of it is that, when you look at the pros and cons, indie is absolutely a viable alternative and reasonable place to start without learning how to write a query letter and spend the next few years playing that lottery.

TW: You recently wrote a blog post about your decision to go independent again, despite a chance at representation for the Talent Chronicles. Though some may not realize it, this was a very serious act that reflects the current stature of traditional publishing in eyes of prospective authors. For most authors, getting representation is a dream come true. You turned it down. What qualities does independent publishing hold versus traditional publishing, in your opinion? What made you decide this?

SB: To be really clear what we're talking about, for those who don't know me, what I did was remove my series from the submission process after it was passed on by a handful of first round of editors on the basis of it not being original enough. A few close calls, but it hadn't reached the point where I had an actual contract offer to turn down. I haven't broken up or severed ties with my agent. But I have taken this series back as mine, to run with as an indie, rather than hold it hostage to the NY process.

There was so much that went into the decision that I wrote a 4,000 word blog post about it and still didn't cover everything. But I think maybe the biggest part of it was that I had known what it was to be indie, embraced it, and I was never fully comfortable with the decision I made to take another path. I want the things traditional publishing has to offer. I have tremendous respect for what they do and I desperately want a peek into that world and the opportunity to learn from those people. But I wasn't willing to give up the things I have with independent publishing. I tried to be willing.

I had constant guilt over holding the sequel back from the people who were asking for it, knowing that if I accepted a contract that they would wait 2-3 years for the sequel. But at the end of it, I think that this series, and, probably more importantly, the readership I've started to build for it, are intensely personal for me. I think I'm uncomfortable giving them up the same way I'd be uncomfortable sending my child to boarding school. They're mine, and if I gave them over to someone else, it wouldn't be the same as raising them up myself.

I finally came to an understanding that I might be able to have a foot in both worlds some day, that I might get a taste of what traditional publishing has to offer, but it might not be with this series. Nor does it have to be. Right now, for too many reasons to talk about here, I feel like I need to stay indie with this.

Meanwhile, I do want to embark on a separate project, guided by my agent, which would be written specifically to offer to traditional publishers. By the time that's completed, hopefully I will have a following of loyal readers to bring to that traditionally published book, and the wider distribution of that book could bring new readers to my independently published series. Everyone would win. I would also love to talk selling print-only rights, but I'm far from being big enough to see that happen yet.

TW: Finally, in your opinion, twenty years from now, what do you think the statuses of independent publishing and small presses will be, as opposed to now? Will they still be in the shadows of large publishing houses? What about print books vs. eBooks?

SB: I'm not a business or publishing expert and I don't know much about small presses at all. I think there's an exciting place for small, boutique press, though. Not only can a business bring reputable editorial, technical, design, and marketing skills to an author in need who just wants to write the books(!), but there are excellent opportunities for branding and cross-promotion available to a small press that are difficult for a large distributor (like Amazon) or an individual author to achieve.

Joe Konrath and Blake Crouch chatted recently about the idea of authors having their own stores where they would get all the royalties on their sales, and also perhaps carry a few titles from each of a carefully selected handful of authors that suited their brand. Great! Except that if no one knows you, no one's coming to your store and you have the problem of building web traffic to deal with on top of every other indie thing. Being established would help. Secondly, accounting scares the bejeezus out of me. I do not want to handle anyone else's royalties.

But that's the kind of thing boutique press can do and is already doing. When last I looked, I wanted them to do it a lot more cheaply and lower ebook prices to be competitive with straight-up self-pubbers so their authors would have a better shot at hitting the Amazon bestseller charts and taking advantage of the visibility that brings. I don't know if that's changed. If they could strike that balance between providing those valuable services, at a cover price and royalty rate that would make it worthwhile for an author to stay with them, I see a tremendous opportunity there for both small presses and authors.

As far as indie/trad, I think we're going to see a lot of crossover. One thing I think is important to note is that I didn't get a single rejection that snubbed me for having published independently. If anything, the editors who responded were impressed by the sales of my first book, and impressed with me because of it. I never got the impression they felt I was tainted or that the series was "used goods." I think we may see fewer virgin authors being published, and instead see more of publishers snapping up up-and-coming indies who have already started to build a following. The "Amazon as slush pile" model, if you will.

I think we'll be seeing more of authors trying to be part of both worlds, both as established authors take advantage of backlist rights which have reverted to them, and as some newer authors furiously crank out new titles to release in between their once a year traditional title releases, to keep fresh in the minds of their readers.

Because of what has happened and what's been said about self-publishing in the last year or two, I think it's going to be important for agents to be clear about their positions on the issue. I knew I needed an agent, but was afraid to query because I had the impression that agents looked down on indies just as some of those readers do, and I didn't want to be snubbed. So I sat around and waited for someone to come to me. Either too many agents came out against independent publishing, or too many people yammering said they did, and either way, it can't just be me who thinks that some of them don't want to hear from us. Those who do will need to state that they are willing to speak with self-published authors to avoid confusion, at least until some self-publishing for most authors become the norm.

And self-published authors who want representation will have to understand that they may have to make some sacrifices to work with an agent, because an agent's time and skills are valuable and they can't and shouldn't work for free.

* * *

Even in Nora Robert's/JD Robb's future-world –in Death series, there was a place for printed books to be revered. I don't see us giving those up in my—or even my daughter's—lifetime. But already we're seeing some changes in buying habits. Many people I know read digital, but still maintain a keeper shelf in print, even if it's just to see the spines. I think that may be a trend, for people to purchase only their favorite books or authors in print, only after they've tried them out in ebook first. For that reason, we may see traditionally published books as e-only releases until they reach a certain level of popularity. In that case, I'd like to see traditional publishers offer a POD version until such time as they can justify a print run.

(This morning I got excited about a book someone talked about on a blog. I ran [virtually speaking] to go get a copy. It was in hardcover and audiobook only and had been published in 2008. The hardcover wasn't too expensive. Amazon had it under $10. But I don't read paper books anymore. They're just not what I stick in my purse to read and when I buy them they don't get read. My shelf space is for reference books and things that I love and I'm just not buying this book I was, just this morning, excited enough to spend money on. Publishers MUST fix this because it hurts their authors too.)

OMG bookstores! Yes, we all love bookstores. While I complain about the speed at which Barnes and Noble moves at some things, they've done some things intensely right with the NOOK program, including wi-fi in their stores and the ability to go in and read ebooks on your NOOK for free while in the store. Other bookstores may someday install kiosks or something where one could download books after being swayed by whatever is used to market books in the store. Bookstores may evolve more into meeting places with more closed off areas that welcome patrons to come and socialize about books. They may draw people in by providing an atmosphere for book lovers to meet up as well as shop. It wouldn't be enough business for a book shop on every corner, but we don't have that now, and that's due to the limits of brick and mortar selection vs. the limitless nature of online shopping much more than it's due to ebooks, in my opinion.

The things that keep an independent bookstore open now should be the same things that keep it open in the future: knowledgeable staff, atmosphere, customer service… What they actually stock in the store may change as the customer changes, and I hope they have the customer loyalty to survive during the transition. It's definitely a storm that will be hard to weather for many and I hope they do because they're an incredibly valuable resource in the book community.

Interview with Karin Rita Gastreich, author of Eolyn

Karin Rita Gastreich is the author of Eolyn, a fantasy story about a young woman who loses everything she'd known (including her village), and is forced to embark on a path of adventure, betrayal and war. Eolyn was published by Kansas City indie press Hadley Rille Books in early 2011.

"Sole heiress to a forbidden craft, Eolyn lives in a world where women of her kind are tortured and burned.  When she meets Achim, destined to assume the throne of this violent realm, she embarks on a path of adventure, friendship, betrayal and war. Bound by magic, torn apart by destiny, Eolyn and the Mage King confront each other in an epic struggle that will determine the fate of a millenial tradition of magic."

Another more astounding note is that Karin Rita Gastreich was also my Animal Behavior and Botany professor at Avila University School of Science and Health. We even got published around the same time!

Hadley Rille Books, like us, is an independent publishing company, located in Kansas City (where I live), and has been publishing quality fantasy and science fiction by amazing authors for many years. I recently had the opportunity to talk to Karin about herself, her book, and Eolyn's writing process.

 

 

TW: Tell us about Eolyn. What inspired you to write it? How long did it take you to do so?

KRG: Eolyn is about a woman who inherits a tradition of magic that has been forbidden to women in her world, for political and historical reasons. As a young girl, Eolyn develops an important friendship with the boy Akmael, heir to the king who killed her family and destroyed the Magas (the name given to women who practice this tradition of magic). When Eolyn and Akmael meet again as adults, they are leaders on opposite sides of a major military conflict, and must come to terms with the meaning of their friendship in the context of war.

It's hard to pinpoint what inspired me to write Eolyn. Although it took me about 4 years to complete the manuscript, the story itself has had a very long gestation period, so the influences have been many and complex. I suppose at the heart of my motivation was a desire to write a fantasy in which a female character could play a meaningful role, including leadership in times of war, without necessarily wielding a sword. I also wanted the story to reflect something of the reality of women's history, especially during medieval and renaissance times in Europe. I've read much of women's history from those periods, and I have always been fascinated by how certain extraordinary women managed to exercise a lot of power, despite their lack of skill on the battlefield and the rampant discrimination that characterized those societies.

TW: What are some authors that have inspired you? What are you currently reading?

KRG: I've been reading for a long time, so it's hard to put together a short list of authors who have inspired me. J.R.R. Tolkien would have to be included, as would T.H. White. The Brothers Grimm, while not 'authors' in the same sense as Tolkien or White, provided a lot of fertile ground for my imagination with their German folktales. There are many historical fiction authors I admire, such as Frances Kazan, Philippa Gregory and Karen Essex; and a long list of Latin American authors who have inspired me, including Giocanda Belli, Mario Benedetti and Jorge Luis Borges. I've also been inspired by the work of historians such as Alison Weir, David Starky and Caroline P. Murphy. That's just with respect to my life as a novelist; if we start talking about my life as an ecologist, the list gets even longer…

I recently finished reading the fourth book of George R.R. Martin's A Song of Fire and Ice series. Martin is another author whose work I greatly admire. This past summer, I also read Bambi, a Life in the Woods, by Felix Salten. I was pleasantly surprised by the book, which I suspect is significantly different from the Disney movie. (I never saw the movie.) Salten's work is an excellent example of how to write a story about animals without turning them into humans. This week, I started Ian McDonald's The Dervish House, a science fiction novel set in a near-future Istanbul.

TW: Aside from writing, what else do you do? What is your profession? What are some of your hobbies?

KRG: My day job is as an assistant professor of biology at Avila University. My areas of specialization are tropical ecology and animal behavior. I've spent a lot of time doing field work in the tropics — tramping around dense forests, mucking through mangroves, and the like. My love for the forest experience comes through loud and clear in the pages of Eolyn. I was very pleased when artist Jesse Smolover gave Eolyn muddy feet in the cover art for the novel.

I have a lot of hobbies. I enjoy camping, hiking and bicycling. I have studied dance almost all my life, including ballet, modern, Latin dance and most recently, flamenco. I like to go out with friends & listen to live music. I love to travel, especially to national parks and to different countries.

TW: Eolyn has had some outstanding reviews and a great overall reception. Do you have any other works in progress?

KRG: Oh, thank you! Yes, I've been really pleased with how people are responding to the novel. I'm currently working on a sequel, as well as a short story that takes place prior to the start of Eolyn.

A few years down the road, when I wrap up my time in Eolyn's world, I would like to write a novel based on my short story 'Creatures of Light', published in Adventures for the Average Woman last fall. 'Creatures of Light' is a fantasy set in the Age of Exploration, 16th to 17th century. It's a period that doesn't get much attention in fantasy (compared to, say, the medieval era), but it's a violent and gaudy era that I think would be a lot of fun to capture in the context of fantasy fiction.

I've also recently started a very exciting blog project called Heroines of Fantasy with authors Kim Vandervort and Terri-Lynne DeFino. The blog will launch in September, 2011, and will be devoted to facilitating discussions of fantasy fiction, and especially women in fantasy fiction.

TW: Explain the writing process. How do you go about writing a story, from beginning to the completion of the novel itself?

KRG: Well, I've only done one and a half novels so far, so it's hard to generalize. I don't write an outline, but before I sit down to start a novel, I have to have a clear idea in my head of how it's going to end, and the major events leading up to that ending. While writing the novel, I put a lot of thought into characters and motivation. I try to build the story around the choices that each character makes, and the logical consequences of those choices. Sometimes, as in the case of Eolyn, this leads me to a different denouement from what I had originally envisioned.

Throughout the writing process, I seek feedback from readers and other authors. I've developed some very important collaborative relationships with members of two writers groups, one based in my home town of Kansas City, the other an on-line workshop with authors from all over the world. Their support and critical input has been fundamental to my success as a writer.

TW: Were there any obstacles with writing Eolyn?

KRG: The biggest challenge was the battle sequence. I felt very insecure about this, mostly because I started out with little knowledge of medieval warfare. I kept wanting my characters to just 'talk it out', to come to terms with each other and establish peace without having to put all those long swords and battle axes to use. Yeah, right. Like that was really going to work in an epic fantasy. Akmael, Drostan, Tzeremond, and all the rebels that rose up against them would hear nothing of peace talks. So in the end I had to do my research and write my battle sequence. But it actually turned out to be very interesting and a lot of fun – one of my favorite parts of writing the book. I had a lot of great help from members of my writers groups in the process, and again, their contributions made all the difference. One of the highlights of the release of Eolyn was when Publishers Weekly described my battle scenes as "vigorously written". I have rarely felt such a sense of accomplishment.

TW: Finally, what are three things you aim to do before you die? Think carefully.

KRG: Oh, goodness. Is this a 'three wishes' question, or a 'three goals' question? And how much time do I have?

If I were slated to die next week, I would like to have my mother's sauerbraten one last time (sauerbraten is a traditional German dish, basically a marinated roast). I'd also want to enjoy a romantic night out with my husband, and I would eat lots of dark chocolate.

But let's assume I have another few decades ahead, in which case I'd like to:

Hike through the Bialowieza Forest. Maybe even camp there, if they allow it. Bialowieza is one of the last remnants of primeval deciduous forest still standing in Europe, and I would just love to experience it.
 Visit the Galapagos Islands. That's kind of every biologist's dream. Maybe I could get a trip to Ecuador and the Peruvian Amazon included in the tour.
Walk the Great Wall of China. (It's kind of a tough choice, actually, between that and seeing the pyramids, or visiting the cradle of civilization in Iraq. But if I have to pick just one, it'd be the Great Wall. Maybe on that tour, I could get a trip to a panda reserve included, and from there it'd be only a short hop on a jet plane to Angkor Wat…)

Karin Rita Gastreich, along with some of the other female authors at Hadley Rille Books have just recently started a new blog titled "Heroines of Fantasy", where they discuss (among other things) female oriented subjects in the world of fantasy fiction. Make sure to check it out, since they've generated some rather interesting posts and discussions so far. 

Eolyn can be found on Amazon, available in print, hardback and kindle.

1889 Labs is looking for a php/WordPress Developer!

 

1889 Labs is looking for an experienced php/Wordpress developer to help with site coding. This will be a paying gig. Those who are interested, please contact MCM at MCM[AT]1889[DOT]ca.

Interview with book blogger Bonnie Sparks

 

Bonnie Sparks is the head book blogger over at Bookish Ardour, one of the more popular book blogging websites in the writing and reading community. She spends countless hours reading and reviewing small press and indie authors, and featuring them on her site for curious and perspective readers.

As you may recall, Bonnie also wrote a rather enlightening guest post last month on 1889 Labs, pertaining to strength vs. intellect in protagonists of fictional stories. And, since Miss Sparks spends a large chunk of her personal time supporting the indie fiction community, I think it's time to return the favor.

This week I had a chat with Bonnie Sparks about her life and  passion for literature.

 

 

TW: Tell us about yourself. Who are you? Where are you?

BS: I'm a writer and book reviewer based in Australia, in the process of working on my first novel, and an advocate for LGBT causes and raising awareness for lesser-known illnesses.

TW: Tell us about your book blog, 'Bookish Ardour'.

BS: Bookish Ardour is mainly a speculative fiction book blog I began in 2009. I use the term mainly because speculative fiction is what I read and reviewed predominately, but we also review classic literature, LGBT friendly fiction, non-fiction on occasion, graphic novels, and poetry.

BA was first created as a means for me to post about the books I read as well as ramble about other bookish subjects. I then began reviewing on a regular basis and accepting requests from authors. In the last couple of months I've been slowly turning BA into a team effort in order to concentrate more on my writing. I'm still looking for more members for the team, but so far it's working out really well.

TW: Judging from your book blog, you are extremely passionate about literature. What brought on this undying love for books?

BS: I know for me books are not only a wonderful source of entertainment, but also open windows to many divergent worlds and perspectives. People can learn a great deal from reading and it doesn't matter if books are non-fiction or fiction, we're able to learn from both.

Part of my childhood was a little too serious and real for a young mind to cope with so stories were a great way to have a break from reality, as they are for a lot of people, and I became quite the escapist. On the other hand, in some areas of my childhood, I was sheltered to a degree and reading was another way of learning about different elements to the world. At times I still am an escapist for those reasons these days, but I believe my love of books is tied into being a writer and storyteller as well. At least I find it helps with writing.

TW: Who are your favorite authors of all time?

BS: H.G. Wells and Anne Rice are the top favourites of all time. I've been a fan of Anne Rice since I was 14 and never wavered. H.G. Wells on the other hand is an author I found later and I love his work more for his ideas rather than his writing. Patrick Rothfuss, Anthony Burgess, Stephen King, Tobsha Learner, Bram Stoker, George Orwell, and Aldous Huxley are definitely up there as well.

TW: Other than reading, what other hobbies do you have?

BS: Gaming. I go through gamer geek phases when I need a break from books. I also enjoy photography, which I'm getting back into, and dabbling in other artistic areas. Creating something people can use, support forums for example, and working on projects every so often. I currently run my own book club as well and help others to set up their own.

TW: As you know, the book world is changing. For the first time ever, e-books are beginning to outsell print. What are your thoughts on the e-book vs. print topic?

BS: I read eBooks already and it's definitely a medium I'm contemplating for my own novels, but at the same time a small part of me protests against them. In how the world is moving with this digital age making stories not only more accessible, but also possibly attractive to people who can't be bothered to pick up a paperback, is fantastic. If digitising stories can get people, who wouldn't read otherwise, reading than who are we to fault it? What's more there's the added bonus of saving trees, which is brilliant, and the amount of space eBooks free up.

The reason a small part of me protests against eBooks is because, like a lot of other bibliophiles out there, I adore books for their physical form as well as what they contain. There is nothing akin to having that book in your hands, feeling the paper, the smell you can instantly recognise, and I admit I love the aesthetics of books sitting in a bookcase.

I've spent plenty of time in bookstores and libraries over the years and have very fond memories of doing so. They're both places I'm comfortable with on top of representing what books are to me; a collection of knowledge and imagination. I would be quite sad if they were to become non-existent.

At the same time, I don't consider stores and print dying out as something to really worry about. I like to believe there will always be those die-hard fans of print out there, I don't see why both mediums can't exist side by side, and a story is not about its appearance. While I'm able to understand those readers out there who are passionately against the popularity of books, I believe that fight it is a waste of time, and we need to adapt.

TW: Aside from reading, do you write? If so, can you tell us a little about it?

BS: Yes I do. I'm currently in the middle of writing a dystopian novel, which I've been working on since late last year. I began it during NaNoWriMo and I think it's safe to say that playing hours of Fallout just before influenced me, but I've loved dystopia for years so maybe not. Unfortunately my health has gotten in the way of continuing that story, but I'm now working on getting back on track with it and hope to finish by the end of this year.

I'm also working on a few short story collections and have other writing projects on the backburner, all of which are speculative fiction. I started out writing horror, but I've branched out and don't wish to stick to one genre under the speculative fiction umbrella.

TW: Finally, what do you think books contribute to the human world? What purpose do they serve personally, culturally and societally?

BS: I wonder what books don't contribute? Enjoyment is only the tip of the ice burg. There's also the element of escapism, which I personally feel is healthy to an extent because we all need a form of time out every now and then. There's the ability to educate, incite passion, broaden a person's mind, and I believe feeding your imagination can help you in your daily life, whether it's coming up with a solution to a problem, or attempting to see all sides to a story.

On a broader level, ignorance is something that is crippling society; it has been since human kind came into existence. People need a way to emotionally connect and stories have the power to do so while helping to open up a person's mind. For instance, I already knew about the Holocaust when I read The Diary of Anne Frank in my teens, but when you're not experiencing the event yourself you're not always able to understand the extent of how horrifying it is for someone, nor what they're thinking at the time. Granted reading about it is not similar to being there and never will be, but I believe reading a person's thoughts and feelings can give another both an insight of what others go through and help one realise we're all individuals with a shared makeup.

Reading is another way of educating and call me idealistic, but I trust books as a way to help remove ignorance.

 

Bonnie Sparks is the admin, editor, and a reviewer at Bookish Ardour in between being a struggling writer working on her first novel. You can find Bonnie on Twitter (@Bonnie_Sparks), her personal/writing blog, GoodReads, and Facebook.

Codex Nekromantia by Greg X Graves: Zombies, the Apocalypse and Survivalism

Greg X Graves, author of Bears, Recycling, and Confusing Time Paradoxes, has just released Codex Nekromantia, a tale of survivalism in a dystopian world after a zombie epidemic.

 

Necromancers have filled Constantinople…with zombies!

No, not that Constantinople.

Constantinople, Illinois, a nucleus of urban sprawl in the middle of midwestern soybean fields.

Codex Nekromantia is the chronicle of the survivors of the zombie catastrophe.  Well, survivors makes them sound organized.  Stragglers is more accurate – besides, how can the self-raised corpse of the city's founder count as having survived anything? Greg X. Graves tells the story of life, love, necromancy, the fragile human condition when caught between the jaws of a very robust human condition, and wholesale zombie slaughter.

$2.99, available in the Amazon Kindle Store (print coming soon)

 

I also recently had the opportunity to sit down and chat with Greg X Graves about his newest book.

TW: Tell us a little about Codex Nekromantia. How did you begin writing it? What made you decide to?

GXG: I began writing it in 2005.  At the time, I was working on a SERIOUS BZNZ science fiction novel that never took off.  Which is a shame, because it involved lots of airborne travel, zeppelins and floating cities and the like.  Codex Nekromantia developed as a way to blow off my frustration towards the Novel That Wouldn't Work.

As is the way of things, my blow-off project eclipsed by main project, both in my excitement level and the completeness of the draft.  Still, I've written about a dozen versions of the Codex Nekromantia plot, several of which have abortive drafts attached to them.  None of them have the humor of the finished product.  But you won't know that until I'm dead.  They will never see the light of day while I'm alive.  My wife has permission to sell them after I die in case she decides to get into the writing advice market with examples of what not to do.

TW: This is your second book published by 1889 Labs; the first being humor. What made you decide to take on an apocalyptic/dystopian genre?

GXG: While I was writing Codex Nekromantia I didn't really notice the brutality of the plot.  In retrospect, yeah.  Wow.

In the darkest times people let their light shine.  I think that the book betrays my general optimistic feelings towards humanity.  Humans are pretty neat.  That's unpopular to think, let alone say.  And there's plenty of reasons not to: look at all the bombs that we have invented because that town over there is 1. intact 2. not on fire 3. isn't full of enough corpses.

But then again, people are always proving my point, like dragging other people from burning buildings.  Don't believe what sour internet commentors or the news say about humanity.  They're the equivalent of that loud, angry little man in my head that is constantly shouting about how dull, fat and incapable that I am.  He'll be there pouring out his rage and indigestion while the rest of my brain's getting on with life and enjoying a mighty fine sandwich.

Apocalypses magnify otherwise ephemeral qualities, and what I see through that lens is a good humor.  I hope that shines through.

TW: Do you have any other works in progress?

GXG: You know that science fiction novel that I mentioned earlier?  With the zeppelins and floating cities?  The one that spurred me to start a whole new novel so that I didn't have to work on it?  In keeping with my newfound tradition of finishing novels that have been knocking around for years, I'm finishing that up this fall.

If you're a fan of World War I, Nikolai Tesla, Marie Curie, really huge explosions, or international intrigue, I hope that you'll check it out.

If you're a fan of quiet little books where not much happens, well, sorry.  Lots and lots of stuff will happen, often all at once and to many different characters.  Perhaps, um, go have a lie down instead of reading it?

TW: Are there any authors or works that have been an inspiration to you?

GXG: Two major names come to mind: Kurt Vonnegut and Terry Pratchett.  Both prove that that fun, interesting and profound are not mutually exclusive.

TW: Aside from writing, what other interests do you have?

GXG: I have served as a Dungeons and Dragons dungeon master, and have written all of the campaigns that I've run.  That was always a blast.

A historian by training, part of what draws me to writing is the research.

Apparently, looking around my office, I'm also interested in putting together particleboard furniture.

Finally, Starcraft 2 infests my brain.  I'm a frequent lurker on the Starcraft subreddit and watch day9′s excellent web series whenever I get a chance.

TW: What are three things you plan on doing before you die?

GXG: Being awesome.

Really awesome.

Super awesome.

Get your copy of Codex Nekromantia HERE

The End

The young men fought bravely, all swordsmen. Their action seemed effeminate and contrived before the brutal onslaught of the veterans, but it kept them alive for a short time. From the moment they burst out of the burning house, Dragan could see it was a rout.

They were outnumbered two to one by men who had survived nine months of every year by killing, and the line of veterans moved as one, bearing down on the cornered defenders.

To his left, Lukas swung a war axe, its twin blades as wide as a man's chest and its handle doubling his reach. The boys who faced him ducked and feinted, but fell.

His own sword bit into flesh, just as it always had, and he moved forward without looking at the faces in his path. He fought because he had no other choice. It would be the last time, he promised himself. There was no case but men at his own door that would make him bear arms again.

To his right, Freya moved with the line. Her step was as fast and as confident as ever, as if she had not been through these months of hell and torment. Her expression was all focused rage, bearing down on a doomed foe. She swung her sword high, turning her weight into the blow as she brought it down on the lighter blade of her opponent. The blades locked, hers sliding down onto his quillon and protective gilded basket, meeting hilt to hilt.

Her position was superior, and Dragan turned away, raising his own sword in attack and bringing it down onto the young man ahead of him. Slicing down onto his unprotected shoulder first, Dragan then reversed the angle as his victim reached instinctively to his wound, thrusting up into his exposed stomach and chest.

He stepped onto the fallen lad, using both hands to draw up the blade stuck fast against bone. Beside him, Freya's opponent took his weight onto his thighs, shifting his balance and using the main strength of his back and legs to drive upward against her hold. He doubled her weight easily, and that in hard, youthful muscle. As Dragan roared in alarm the youth lifted her sword high, turned at the zenith and reversed his swing. His light blade with its fancy hilt and shining gilding flashed.

Freya leapt back, speed and agility still her best defense, but the tip of the blade caught the excess in her tunic, ripping it, catching and dragging her weight awkwardly to one side. In an agony of slow motion horror, Dragan watched her spin. Her left knee twisted, buckling as she turned away from the point. Her sword arm came up and out instinctively to brace against her fall, but the injury in her shoulder was a weakness for which no skill could compensate. Her arm straightened and jarred, her eyes were tight closed, and pain roared from her open mouth as her chest and shoulder caved. She hit the ground hard.

His sword came free, trailing blood in a fountaining arc toward where she lay.

Her attacker had regained his balance and held his sword vertical in a double-handed downward stab. Dragan turned into a backhand swing, the sharp tip and razor edge of his blade rising to catch the young noble just below his ribs. As his momentum carried him in a tripping stumble over where she lay, Dragan swept the lighter sword's threat aside and slashed back, taking the youth's head cleanly from his shoulders.

To fall out here was to die. Ahead, the crack of Lukas' axe filled the gap in their line, his swing making good use of the space. Dragan stood above her, straddling where she lay, with his fist and forearm wrapped in the tunic of his headless-foe. He held the gouting corpse like a shield as he peered down at her gore-stained form. None of the blood was hers, but it soaked her like an omen, sliding into dark, gelatinous puddles and draining into the thirsty earth.

Her eyes were wide with pain, and ran with tears of shock. The sword that had once turned like an extension of her own flesh, lay just out of reach as her curled fingers twitched and trembled in the mud. He lowered his sword arm, bending to offer the support of his wrist, and she turned her face up to his, glaring from her own Hell up into his.

For a long moment she lay still, as realizations that needed no words passed between them. Looking away, searching for her sword, she spat and wiped the bloody drool from her lips. Then cradling her right arm tight against her belly, she reached for the strength of Dragan's forearm, and he pulled her to her feet.

*****

The guerilla fighters rallied, digging-in in the familiar formation of a marching camp as the sun rose over the burning ruin of Lenka's home. They had increased the count of their horses by ten, and their weapons count had doubled. It was a start in a war that would end when there were no more horses to ride or men to wield the swords.

Dragan left them with his blessing and Freya followed him, cursing silently as they rode the track back toward their home. The silence that clenched her anger tight was filled with too many words. If she began, they might never end and she wanted to scream out her frustration, to argue some kind of defense. And if words failed, to slap away the look of relief that eased the lines of Dragan's face.

His wordless calm spoke to her of justification. He need not answer for lies; his judgment had been proven right. He'd called her incompetent and he'd seen his call vindicated. He was wrong. He was wrong.

Blood had dried in itchy scabs across her arms and inside her tunic, and she picked at the irritation, scratching and flaking the accusing marks from her skin. The blood was not hers; how often had she worn the blood of other men? How often had she caught a sword that had been meant for him? It was only a moment. The morning was a workout after too long in a cold stiff hibernation, but her blood would warm.

It was only a moment. He was wrong. But she couldn't find the confidence to say the words aloud.

* * * * *

In the darkness, Freya wept silently. Beside her, her husband slept, his breathing slow and even. His arm was her pillow, and as her sadness curled into her back and shoulders, she turned her face into his side, breathing the warm familiar smell of him deep. If every other dream he'd cherished had been a lie, at least he had made her feel safe when she slept beside him. He had made that one impossibility real.

Harder sobs rose at the thought and she sat up, pulling her snuffled breath away for fear of waking him. The air was cold, rushing up her back with a breath of ridicule, and she pulled a woolen rug up over her shoulders. Beneath the coverlet, the warmth of him spread across their bed, surrounding her hips with its comfortable wash. Perhaps sensing her movement, he rolled in his sleep, turning to reach for her, resting his hand on her thigh. It too, was hot against her skin.

Fat tears pushed from under her screwed up eyelids and a breath hiccoughed, as loud as a cry in the silence of the night. She lifted his hand and held the warm palm against her face, letting her tears run into the deep lines of fate. There was strength in his hands, in his long fingers, and she covered them with her own and pressed them close against her cheek. She turned her lips and kissed each finger, forcing a gag of silence over her breathing. The long lost infant she had been clung to him, drawing on the comfort and security the world had never offered her.

Dropping her face in desperate shame, she wove her fingers through his, and held their clasped hands tight against her belly. She had begun to rock, and her tears fell onto the sheet that bunched around her. The silver ring which had grown tight around her index finger, now showed as a dark shadow on her middle finger.

Her hand was fatter. She was fatter and softer.

She'd never eaten so well in her life, and for the chance to be full, to have eaten until there was no hunger gnawing, she had Dragan alone to thank. The little girl within her could never have dreamed of a day when there would be too much food. Smearing tears across her cheek and wiping her nose with the back of her hand, she leaned and kissed his shoulder.

A corner of the sheet hung free and she eased it up and used it to wipe the dampness from her hands and her face. She wadded it tight and pressed it hard against her nose. It worked as well as anything might to muffle the sound as she tried to snort back the thickness that throbbed in her sinus. Two deep breaths through her mouth helped to quieten sobs that still kicked and coughed from her throat.

The crying had to stop, but it was not an easy intention to put into effect. For just a few moments she sat, trying not to think, just breathing some sense of control into her system.

Beside her he snored softly. Her free hand moved out, and traced gently down the line of his jaw. Awake or asleep, his features did not change. They were so familiar. He didn't smile enough, he never had, but this was a face she had grown to love. The heat of fresh tears burned her eyes, and she cursed silently to herself, shaking her head at the pointlessness of all this, and wiped them away.

He loved her, and the burn that knowledge brought was deep in her chest. It seized her heart, stopped its rapid beat with a clench that prevented her breathing. Everything inside set hard and only the screaming that never stopped wailed in her head. She would never deserve that love. It was beyond her and above her.

She brought her knees up hard against her chest and pressed both fists over her ears, as if the noise inside might be silenced that way. Nothing ever stopped it but violence. Nothing but action, and she forced herself to straighten, then to curl herself around and onto her knees, and to climb over him to the floor beyond.

Out of the corner of her eye, a movement caught her attention and she turned to look. Lenka had lifted her head and shoulders and lay propped on an elbow, staring silently at Freya over the ashy fireplace. There were no words to pass between them. Freya felt nothing for the girl lying in those deep shadows, neither friendship nor animosity. In all, she supposed, they were the same, both looking for a way to get what they needed from a world with little enough to spare for anyone.

In his sleep Dragan frowned deeply, mumbling, and a weak smile trembled on her lips for his confusion. "This world makes no sense to me, either," she whispered. She kissed him lightly on the cheek. "I love you."

* * * * *

Dragan woke with his heartbeat heavy. It throbbed a hard pulse in his chest and throat, and it echoed in his head. Before he had woken enough to clear his thoughts of dreams, his body thumped its warning from deep inside. He was aware of the cold air first, and then the emptiness that caused it.

Without opening his eyes, he slipped his hand out to cross the bed beside him. Freya had never woken early, not in all the years he'd known her. His bed was empty and there was a bitter inevitability in that fact. Even the slight hollow where she had lain was cool to touch. All the warmth of her flesh had vanished into the night.

If he rose, he could follow her.

Around him the air was only just beginning to lighten; the house was dark, with only the kiss of silver on the sill. It was unlikely she had been gone more than an hour, and he knew in which direction she would ride. She would join the mustering forces to the north. And she knew he would know where she was, but this time it would not matter if he followed. There would be no more lies, no matter how necessary.

The cock called for him to begin the day, but he stayed. Tears burned hot, and a lump rose in his throat that would not move. With his eyes closed he could believe, just for a few more moments, that she was still beside him. He would rise and she would groan, and snuggle deeper into the pillow and try to stay asleep.

The chance had passed. Too many chances had passed. And he lay on the bed and recounted every one. Just this once he would have held her, and said, "I love you. I need you with me."

It was too late. She was gone.

War

The sun was low as Freya sloshed the wet cloth up over his shoulder and down his back, washing away the muck of a difficult calving. Dragan rubbed his arm with a heavy block of ashy soap, the rough texture scraping at the drying blood.

"Freya," Dragan hissed her name and she spun to the urgent call. "Look."

On the rise above the bier, tracking cautiously down the path toward the house were three riders. In the low light there was little to see clearly enough to identify them. They were armed. One rode with his sword drawn. A long quiver of arrows hung from another saddle.

They were dressed in dark, earthy tones and at least one showed the glint of metal, suggesting mail. That was as much as they could gather, but soon enough they would know more. The riders were slowly approaching them, warily scanning the pastures and buildings for movement or threat.

Freya crouched low and shuffled to the wall where the scythe and harvest hooks hung. She lifted them down carefully and carried them back to where Dragan stood.

The leading rider had noticed the movement and he held out a hand to halt his companions while he walked his horse slowly forward. "Dragan?"

The light was too low for safety, but Dragan stepped forward wiping the damp from his skin.

"We were told you were here, but we weren't sure which farm."

From behind the cover of straw, it was hard to hear the conversation clearly. Once they were close enough to speak without yelling, it became impossible, but Freya watched as they clasped hands like comrades. The other riders approached, dismounting, their weapons sheathed. Dragan welcomed them all and they turned to walk the horses through into the house-yard.

These were farmlands; there were no armed and mounted men in these parts. Unless they were searching for someone. As the riders followed Dragan in through the door, fear and excitement gelled in equal measure, quaking in Freya's knees and bubbling cold in her stomach. Armed men, here. Tucking the smallest reaping hook into her belt at her back, she edged along the dark wall to the doorway.

Their conversation carried clearly in the warm air, and the first words she heard hit her heart like a jab.

"We heard Freya was here, too."

They were looking for her. There was no good reason for the tears that rose or the urgent need to laugh or sob, but she rested her head back on the daubed wall and slid down onto her haunches. Men had been sent after her. They were fools to walk into her house and sit like ducks, but her desertion mattered enough to the hierarchy for them to send men after her. She pressed a hand over her mouth to muffle the confusion of sobs.

It was too dark on the hillside now for Freya to be certain there were no riders following, so she waited in shadows, listening. Dragan was noncommittal, digging for information from them rather than sharing, and their answers, as they came, stopped her breath and her tears.

"There's been a revolt on the front lines. Not everyone yet, but word is spreading and countless men have already left the fight and turned back to their homes. And now we've returned, and we've found there are noblemen taking our land. Our homes have been claimed. They're moving down the river, this way."

Dragan spoke her burning question for her, "Wait. A revolt? What kind of revolt?"

"It's all been a lie, Dragan, and now we know the truth of it. We heard it from an officer. Right from his mouth."

Freya listened with sickly apprehension as Dragan teased out the details. She knew the story, she'd lived it. The officer was Tobias Paske, it had to be, and she felt the rock hard certainty of it in her bones. He wasn't dead.

Dragan's questions were flat, a word or two that seemed heavy with reluctance, but the answers came in a rush of bitterness and passion for revenge.

"We were mustered in a marching camp back behind our lines getting provisions and medical aid a few months back, and an officer was brought in. He was near dead and the boys that brought him in were all from the citadel. They'd been sent out looking for him. And Freya."

Paske had been taken across the peaks to the closest surgeons, and he'd been talking. The men who'd carried him in were already incensed at his ravings by the time they reached the camp. And when the surgeons had him stable enough to be questioned, there was no protocol that could stop the fighting men around him from demanding answers. He'd told them everything. All that he'd laughed and told her. It was true.

Now that same truth had come back in the mouths of the men Freya had abandoned.

"He explained how it is, Dragan. There's a lot didn't believe him, as you'd expect. But I heard him. I was there and I walked away from it all. I might have lived in doubt all my days, but when we got home we found he was telling the truth about this.

"Young noblemen are moving out from the cities into the farmlands and acquiring any land they want. We don't have enough men working the land, and they don't have enough room to live. They're sending us off to die and now they're taking the homes from our wives and daughters."

All the fear and joy had drained from Freya's face with the heat of her blood.

Dragan was wrong. Paske was alive. It was all true. Everything he'd said was true. And worse.

"There was talk all through the valley about you being here, and we volunteered to come looking for you. Others have ridden back to the front to try to convince the men there that they have to come back. Our blood's better spent keeping our homes."

Dragan had been silent while the stories poured forth. Tales from men they knew, and rumors spreading through the ranks of the war weary from all across the empire. But Freya no longer needed him to voice any questions. She no longer needed to hear the stories told.

She shoved back onto the hard surface, using its stability to push herself up to a stand. He was silent, and she wanted to see his face. She needed to see how he took the news that Paske was not dead. She needed to hear him explain his mistake. He didn't need to ask any more questions. He needed to answer them.

Rolling against the wall, she turned her shoulder to the doorframe and stepped out into the shaft of light. "He's alive," she said bluntly. The faces at the table might have been familiar if she had troubled to look at them. But she only saw Dragan.

Two stools skidded backward as their occupants stood suddenly. "It is you." One rider dipped his head in a small gesture of respect, and smiled. "Matias. We fought together last season. You remember me?"

Freya flashed a stiff smile at them. "Yes," she lied. Her attention went back to her husband. "He's alive. Paske is still alive."

The second standing soldier bobbed his head toward her, too. "Lukas," he said, and pointing to his seated companion, "Onni."

Again she flicked a smile toward the men, and walked steadily closer.

"He can't have been too lively; I threw him down the slope." Dragan watched his hands, and the standing men moved slowly back into their seats, aware of the tension.

"He was alive enough to talk, Dragan."

Matias had not finished with his appeal, and he broke in over the solid silence between them. "The thing is, Freya, the farms along this valley are being taken. There's barely a league between here and the nearest stolen property. They killed the old man and his wife from the big orchard."

From where she had hidden in Goda's dark corner, Lenka let out a wail of grief and horror. All eyes turned to her and the old woman who pulled her down to comfort her, but Matias continued, "They have a small guard, maybe a dozen. No more. All young men. But they'll only stay there a few days. By then they'll have in provisions and more mounted men will have come down from the north, and they'll move to the next place they feel like taking."

Matias made a fist of one hand, grinding his anger and frustration against the palm of the other. "That's how they've been working so far, and we need every man that can hold a sword. We have to stop them now, before they dig in any deeper. Once their numbers get too high, we'll have no hope but to run." He turned his plea back to Dragan.

"Will you join us?"

* * * * *

Nothing had changed in the room. Not the light, not the air, and yet it seemed to be darker and colder than it had been a moment before. To Dragan, it seemed even the smell had subtly altered. In one instant he'd had everything he'd planned in his life, and in the next it was gone.

The encroaching nobles might come or not, but the core of his hearth and home would be forever changed. The war had come to find him. And so soon.

"How many of you are there?" His voice was already rough with the rub of foreknowledge.

"Here, we have thirty-four. That's all. Most of us are veterans, but we've only got the weapons we carried with us. We need every hand, every sword."

"How long until you expect men back from the front?"

"There aren't enough horses. The riders we sent out will have been on the frontline for days now, but how long it will take them to stir up dissent; and how many will come; and in which direction they'll move, I can't say. Any that do come this way will be traveling on foot."

Freya was glaring at him; he could feel her without looking up.

"You have enough men. If you say there are only a dozen young bucks, all city boys, you can take them without us. Keep their horses and their weapons."

"They're not untrained." Lukas took up the plea. "Whatever they were planning in the cities, they were planning for a long while. These men are trained up. They're not an easy target, but we can stop them, if we stop them here."

"No."

Freya started to speak but he stopped her with a look. "Where are you from? Do you still have a home to go to?"

"My farm has been taken," Mathias answered.

"Gersamian," the others answered in unison, naming a city further west.

"This is my home." Dragan spoke quietly to own his clasped hands. "If nobles are coming and they're as close as you say, then I'll be staying here to keep my own roof safe. As for those already at the orchard, you have the men to deal with them, you don't need us. Take my horses."

"Don't speak for me!" Freya had waited as long as she was content to wait, and he turned up to look at her for the first time. Her face was a mask of pain and anger, but her eyes sparkled with new life. "And no one will take my horses."

She took a seat beside him, her arms crossed on the table. "That farm is not an hour's ride from here. If we don't follow them this time, we have no hope of stopping the young lords when they get here." She turned to face him. "You know I'm right."

She was. All the weights he'd balanced so carefully had shifted, and the crumbling of his lies left no solid ground beneath his feet. In the hard lines that set around her mouth, he could read the words she left unsaid. They were accusation and he had no defense. They were reproach and he had no answer. And she would go.

Lenka's sobbing argued her cause with irritating clarity, while his mother made soft cooing noises and stroked her hair in the darkness. He knew Freya was right; even when his heartbeat was too slow and heavy to admit the cold terror that was rising in his chest; even when he knew it would cost him everything he had. She would go with them, and without her there would be precious little left here worth defending.

"When do you ride against them?" His words slipped out like a sigh of resignation, and he wanted to call them back.

"Tonight, if you're coming. We'll attack at dawn." Mathias' face lit with hope he had been afraid to admit. "The others are assembled between here and the orchard."

"Good." Freya nodded, her voice low and loaded with censure. "We're in."

* * * * *

Ahead, scouts moved silently across the summer pasture and her blood rushed with them. She was trembling; each heartbeat seemed to echo from her knees to her fingertips. She would have laughed aloud for the sheer joy of being in uniform, but this was not the time for celebration.

She waited in the trees above the house, where the sun would rise behind her. The men who crouched around her watched silently for the signal that the guards had been dispatched. In all her years of warfare she had never faced a siege, and neither had any of her companions. But the novelty caused her no concern, a battle was a battle. When it came to living and dying there was only the rise and fall of swords. If the buildings were inconvenient, the simple solution was to be rid of the buildings.

Flames smudged orange against the predawn sky as the thatch caught alight. Lenka's family home was fine and wide, with a stone annex and chimney pot over the vent, but its magnificence would not save it from the fire. The men sleeping within would have no choice but to engage on open ground. Their horses were of no use to them, and their sword skill would be matched.

Already the morning felt like a victory.

As the flames slowly took hold, her comrades stood, ready. She didn't look for Dragan; she knew he would be behind her.

In a howling sprint they covered the short distance to meet their enemies, as men burst from the doorway in gouts of smoke. Some were unarmed in their haste to escape. Those clung in close to the mud walls, taking cover between their sword wielding brothers and the heat and falling embers of the roof.

August Recap

We've had quite a busy August, and it's time to do one final recap before we move onto September, which will be full of even more guest posts and new releases!

BOOK RELEASES

Bone Fragments – by Gabriel Gadfly

 

Kindle: $0.99; Print: $9.99

Set in Iraq, China, and many other places, Bone Fragments reflects the kaleidoscope of life at war, evoking the colors, sounds and sorrows of those in battle, and those left behind.

Click here to purchase a copy.

 

The Antithesis: Book 2 α – By Terra Whiteman

Ebook: $2.99; Paperback: $12.99

The second installment of The Antithesis Series

Qaira Eltruan is the Commandant of the Enforcers, Sanctum's Special Military Sect of angel exterminators. The war against the Archaeans has been nothing but a seventy-year stalemate, yet everything is set to change with the arrival of a mysterious Scholar who can serve to sway the battle in their favor. But this Scholar has secrets of her own…

Secrets that may kill them all.

Click here to purchase a copy.

 

1889 LABS EXCLUSIVE SERIALS

Touchstone by Letitia Coyne is approaching its finale. If you haven't checked it out, now's the time!

War is hell, and then it starts to hurt.

Click here to start reading now

 

Gangster by M. Jones

From the dark, basement speakeasies of 1926 Chicago, to the decadent parties of the Hollywood elite, psychopathic Clara slices her way through various people across America in her quest for fame.

Click here to start reading now.

 

And that's all for this month. See you again in September!

Horses

"We can sell the horses." He'd been considering it for some time, but it was only in the week since Lenka had returned with the second beast that he had come to a decision. Keeping them made no sense. When they traveled to market they would use the bullock wagon to carry the excess wool and produce, and the grain to be milled. Saddle horses were not necessary.

"No. I look after them. And they're not costing you anything in feed."

It was a long time since he'd seen any real anger in his wife. She'd been calm and accommodating in everything, not making any great demands in the running of the farm or complaining about the chores she'd had to keep up. With Lenka ensconced in the house, she'd followed him into the fields each day, working beside him at anything and everything that needed doing. Calm and biddable in all things. Until today. "They're just good money standing in the yard." He met her anger with his own niggling irritability. "They're solid horseflesh. Someone will pay well for them."

"Money to buy what? Golden buckles? Fancy clothes? I think Lenka has her stitching all planned for the next few years. She's spun new wool to weave already, so we don't need money for clothes." She had her hands on her hips and her feet firmly planted on the ground. He knew that look and that stance. In the last few days she had been antsy and argumentative, and today she was obviously not planning to back down.

Her determination on this point made him equally stubborn. "Why do you think you need a horse?" There was nowhere on the farm more than walking distance and if she did choose to travel to market with him, it would be in the wagon. There were too many memories tied into keeping those horses and he recognized that fact; there was no other reason for her to want them here. They stood nearby with the promise of escape on their broad backs and she had no need for escape. Not anymore.

"Why are you so intent on getting rid of them? They've done nothing to make you suddenly decide to sell."

Ignoring the question, he stood. The sow they were watching had moved out of sight with her piglets, and he strolled through the trees until he caught sight of the foraging family. Freya's anger at the prospect of losing the horses sent a frisson of concern up his spine. More than concern, it was irritation.

When she followed she was stomping along, lifting her skirts high to keep from tripping and skidding down the leafy slope.

Choosing a mossy log, he tapped it with his staff and then sat. "You need new clothes, or at least some linen for Lenka to stitch something new." She wrestled constantly with the loose dress, tugging the bodice down and lifting the skirts. It was made from heavy wool, and in the summer sun it brought a flush to her cheeks and sweat to her hairline. When she worked in the fields, she tucked the hem up into her belt so her legs were bared to the thighs. "You must want something that fits."

"That fits! I don't want this at all." She held the skirt out at him, waving the mud-stained hem in his face. "It's nothing for me to work in the fields like a man, but I have to dress like this? There is no more stupid idea in all the world than that. Look at it."

She had carefully put the worn suede of her uniform aside, he knew. It was folded and placed lovingly at the bottom of their chest, and more than once he'd considered burning it. It was probably something he should do. "That's just how things are done down here, I told you that." Like the horses, the uniform represented a tie to a different time and a different life.

"You told me the neighbors would expect me to dress in skirts. You said they didn't trust a woman in uniform." Her hands gripped her hips again and she'd squared off in front of where he sat. "I could tie branches to my head and cavort naked in the moonlight every night and no one would know. No one comes here. No one cares!"

"It's early days, yet. They'll come around." The image of her dancing naked across the pastures brought a smile, and his smile made her lips go white. "And some of them will start to soften just knowing Lenka is here now." There were times in a past life, when he'd enjoyed stirring her anger just to watch her temper bloom. There were other times, usually when she had access to some sort of blade, when he'd known enough to be careful not to goad her at all.

"Will they now? You said they'd judge me by what I wore, but that wasn't true, was it? The judgment was already made. They won't judge Lenka, though. They'll come to visit for her sake. They'll work with you if she's in the mix. And that's what we want, is it?"

"Yes. It makes everything a lot easier." He was still grinning, even though he knew it was a mistake.

"They'll all be pleased to see Lenka here. You said there was no fat-assed farm-girl. She's easily three pick handles across the rump, that one. So that wasn't true either, was it?"

"Not as you mean it. But it has been better since she's been here." The smile had slipped from his mouth." A lot more peaceful."

"If things get any more peaceful here, Dragan, I swear to you I will turn into that log." She kicked the log he sat on with such sudden force it cracked, and he stumbled forward as he lurched to his feet, almost falling with its pieces. "As it is, I lie in bed at night and count my own heartbeats just to be certain I'm still alive."

Damnable temper the woman had. There were things she should start to count in her favor. If it wasn't perfect, this farm was safe. It was the only place she had. "Yes, I noticed." There was nowhere else for her, she'd said so herself. No one else. "I've had to check you were breathing, myself."

"You know," she said too quietly, "—I'd kill any other man who said that."

"Left a trail of corpses, have you?"

"I should have. I could always start today."

He nodded, regretting his words as they'd left his tongue. There was too much pain in the dark light of her eyes and the tight line of her mouth, too many hidden tears. There was too much of her life they'd left behind, and she hadn't complained. Strains of remorse colored his thoughts. He could afford to give her more time if she needed it to begin to belong here. After all, he had everything he'd ever wanted right now. And she had nothing of her own.

Dropping his face, he asked, "Was this about horses?"

She didn't answer and she didn't look away. The coldness of her glare touched him without needing to see it, and the regret he felt at the jibes slipped over his skin like a shadow.

"Keep them, I don't care. Like you said, they cost nothing to feed." He turned to follow the snuffling piglets and he listened for her footsteps following.

The sow had moved deeper into the trees to where the leaf litter was thick and damp. The rustle of their rooting and the quiet grunts of the mother calling to her young were the only sound. The cool darkness of the forest shade and the still earthy air caught in chills on the back of his neck. When he finally turned to see where she had gone, he stepped back in surprise. Freya was standing behind him, silent.

"Why do you want to sell the horses?" she asked, the words as quietly challenging as her frank stare.

"I told you, they're only wasted here. Money I could use."

"You don't need the money."

"Right, so keep them."

"Why do you want to sell the horses?"

"All right, then." If she was adamant he should tell her. His voice rose. "Because you don't need them." She looked from his eyes down to his feet and her brow furrowed, but he'd begun and the words continued, the accusations. "You want them because you hope you'll get the chance to leave here one day. To go back to doing what you love."

"And I won't."

"No."

"And you want to make certain by making sure there is no way I could escape."

"Escape what?" He laughed derisively. "This is the life we chose. This is it. This is all there is. Outside of this farm, there are the cities you hate and a front where you won't survive."

"So you keep saying."

"Accept it. For the love of all things holy, Freya: you are not the soldier you were. You haven't trained for four months, and you're getting soft. You favor the right side all the time, in everything you do. You must see it by now! Even if you are still good, you're not good enough to stay alive out there anymore."

There was no expression on her face at all. Her eyes were vacant, staring past him at something he could not see. Like a corpse. The strident tension in her back and arms had fallen into a slouch, and she shrugged and nodded.

She turned away from him and started walking back toward the riverbank.

"Freya." There was no answer, and she kept walking slowly through the trees. He jogged after her, his heartbeat rising toward panic. Catching her arm, he turned her back to face him. "I'm sorry. You know that. I wish I'd not had cause to say it." But it was said and he cast about urgently for some way to pay back what he'd taken. There was nothing more he could give her, nothing that made up for what was gone.

"And forget the horses. They don't matter. Keep them. Keep everything. I gave you everything I have when we wed."

She smiled, a wan drawing of her lips over her teeth that did not light her eyes. "What made you think I wanted everything you have?" She pulled her arm free and kept walking slowly away.

* * * * *

Freya left him and walked back along the riverbank, seeking the small hollow she had made her own private space. She did not get there often, but at times when she wanted to be sure there were no eyes upon her, it was to this place she came.

For two days now she had felt the rhythmic cramps niggling deep in her pelvis, getting slowly worse, and now the pain was growing sharper with every step. She knew the pain; she'd lost count over the years of how many times her body had spat out its contempt for nature.

At first, as a child, she'd had the tiny lives dragged out by the women above the ale hall using their long, hooked bone. Or been blistered and burned by their pessary wads of black hellebore and rue. As an adult, though, she'd never had the need for intervention. Her body knew she was not fit and fertile ground. Seed never settled in her body for more than a few months.

A trickle of warm blood seeped down her thigh and smeared as she walked, and she lifted her skirt, careful not to let the stain touch any of the fabric. She groaned with one sharp spasm and leaned against the nearest tree, holding her breath to keep from crying out until it passed. Then she walked to her small private place and lay down on the mosses to wait for the pain and the bloody mess to pass.

It was easy to believe the tears that ran silently from the corners of her eyes as she lay there were tears for the pain. When she began to sob, she told herself it was because she was alone with her loss, again, and not because she cared at all for what he'd said. But even when she rolled into a tight ball and cried from the depths of her soul, she knew that this time, like every other, was a simple blessing and one of the few she had ever known.